McGonagall's Past
by Annemi
Summary: Why did McGonagall scream like that when she saw Harry come out of the forest? What motivates her in the fight against Voldemort? First fic, please be niceand I'd love reviews!
1. Prologue

Prologue: 8 Years after the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

It was a bright June day in Scotland, and as Hermione Weasley walked onto the Hogwarts grounds, escorted by a greying Rubeus Hagrid, she couldn't help but marvel at how different the castle looked in the summertime. The biggest change was how quiet it was—usually, the hundreds of students ensured that there was a vague rumble of conversation at all times. The lawns, too, appeared to be gradually recovering from months of abuse by hurried teenage feet.

She had visited often in the seven years since her own graduation; often enough not to be surprised at how the castle had changed since then. As the star pupil of her year, she was one of the students that teachers wanted to see again after she left—and they often had opportunities. The unusual circumstances that prevailed during Hermione's school years meant that she had come to know many of her teachers outside of the classroom, while fighting the most evil wizard of the age; others among her friends had also become teachers themselves.

This time, though, she had come on a rather unusual mission. She was, for one, alone—these days, her visits mostly involved shepherding the youngest generation of Weasleys and checking that she hadn't forgot a blanket or bottle, and coordinating affairs back at the Ministry for Magic from afar at the same time. Today, she had brought only a few empty suitcases, for she had come to help Minerva McGonagall pack up her office.

Before she knew it, Hermione found herself before a familiar and vaguely battered-looking Gargoyle. He had recovered after the last fight with Voldemort, but lost a wing. The teachers suspected that he knew where it was, but refused to tell them as punishment for ignoring his cries of pain during the fight.

"Password?" it croaked.

"Ginger newts," Hermione replied. Professor McGonagall had decided to keep Dumbledore's tradition of using sweets as passwords, but under her watch they tended more to shortbreads and biscuits than to lemon drops.

The revolving staircase was much the same as it always had been. The room at the top, though, was a mass of boxes, with silver instruments, tartan tins, Quidditch medals, and large and rather forbidding-looking books with titles such as "Performative Aspects of Modern Transformative Behaviour" and "Transfiguration: Theory and Practice." In the middle of the mess stood a rather harried-looking Minerva McGonagall, her bun—still black, but now with streaks of grey--loosened by the midday heat. She looked up and smiled warmly at Hermione.

"Oh Hermione," she said in welcome, "I do so appreciate you coming." She gave her a warm smile; even after many years of friendship, Professor McGonagall was not really the cuddly type.

"Where should I start?" offered Hermione.

"Well, maybe you'd best start emptying the shelves of that cabinet," responded the teacher, gesturing behind her desk. "That should be fairly easy to organise, if you could just try to keep the books in alphabetical order while you pack them…" Hermione nodded and walked to the cabinet. As she did so, she heard Minerva give a little sigh as she looked at the mess.

"Minerva," she said, still, as ever, feeling slightly odd at addressing her former mentor with her first name, "why don't you go take a break? I can manage the books perfectly well."

"Well, if you don't mind…" the older lady started. "I could do with a little stretch of the legs." Hermione nodded encouragingly and without further discussion, Minerva hurried out the door.

Hermione turned to the bookcase; jobs like this were well-suited to her careful and utterly organised disposition. In fact, she tended to find them rather meditative, in a way. She worked steadily for about twenty minutes, stacking the books carefully in boxes and charming the cardboard so it wouldn't break under pressure. She had finally reached the last shelf. A movement outside the window distracted her momentarily as she guided a little leather-bound book of poetry by Baudelaire with her wand, and as she glanced to her side, the book fell to the floor.

When she bent over to pick it up, cursing herself for letting it fall on her foot—even a child could have managed to at least make it fall sideways—she noticed a small Polaroid with faded colours sticking out of its pages. It was next to a poem called 'Invitation à un Voyage.' She couldn't help herself; she pulled it out to see the whole thing. It showed a woman with shoulder-length black hair and glasses sitting in a light green summer frock cut in the style of the 1960s. She was seated on a park bench, her legs tucked underneath her. In her arms was a tiny baby that waved its tiny little fists in the air; Hermione could just make out a little tuft of black hair on top of its head. The woman stroked its cheek with one hand, and occasionally looked up at the camera contently. The woman resembled McGonagall, it was true—but it could just as easily have been a sister or cousin. Why, wondered Hermione, hadn't she known of this woman before?

Then, suddenly, she became aware that she was no longer alone. She looked up and saw Minerva standing in the doorway, a look of shock on her face.

"Minerva!" she cried. "I…I…I'm so sorry, it fell out." And then, quieter, "Is it you?"

The older woman's lips were pressed tightly together; one who didn't know her might have guessed she was angry. Her face had drained of all colour. Only her eyes, glistening bright, hinted that the emotion troubling her was sadness. If Hermione had been a student, Minerva would have scolded her for snooping, but now, she realised, she couldn't use her stern demeanour as a mask; Hermione had earned the right to know her past.

She sank down onto a small leather couch in the middle of the room, breathing deeply. She wouldn't enjoy telling the story to come. "Hermione," she said, "maybe I ought to explain a few things to you. Why don't you stop packing for a moment and join me on the couch?" She conjured two butterbeers as she spoke. She thought she could probably do with their strengthening powers.

As Hermione sat down beside her, twirling her hair anxiously around her fingers, Minerva closed her eyes. She opened them, and took the picture from Hermione's fingers. Looking down at it with a pained look on her face, she opened her mouth. "That is me. _Accio _Pensieve!" These last two words were spoken in a stronger tone than the others, as if she was strengthening her courage.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

1956

"Shall I expect you next week, then, _Professor McGonagall_?" asked Albus Dumbledore, putting special emphasis on the title. He sat behind a large desk, in a rather empty room that Hermione recognised as the very one in which she had just been seated. His hair was auburn instead of the white that she had always known, and his face less lined, but his twinkling blue eyes were unmistakeable.

On the other hand, it was with some surprise that Hermione realised that the witch across from him was Professor McGonagall; instead of the sturdy authority figure she had always known, she saw a young woman of about thirty, thin but not as angular as she would later become, with an unlined face and hair that floated freely down to her shoulders. The glasses, though, were a giveaway—typically square and sensible.

As Hermione watched, invisibly positioned at the side of Dumbledore's desk, this younger Minerva nodded her head with a smile as wide as Hermione had ever seen it (even as a young woman, it was evident, she had been reserved—emotional displays had never been her strong point). "I'll see you on Monday, Professor Dumbledore," she replied, as she rose and turned to go. "Thank you very much, sir."

"No need to thank me, Minerva," he said seriously. "I could think of no better candidate for the post. On another note," he continued, "now that we are colleagues, I must ask that you call me Albus."

"Of course, Prof—I mean, Albus," she replied, looking a bit sheepish--after all, she had slipped up practically right away.

Hermione followed Minerva as she dreamily made her way down the staircase and off the Hogwarts grounds, towards Hogsmeade. When she stepped out into the wintry air, the black-haired witch looked around the castle and grabbed her arms as if hugging herself with joy and gave an almost imperceptible—but still noticeable—hop. Hermione thought that she heard her breathe, "finally, a teacher!" but she couldn't be sure.

Suddenly the scene dissolved; next thing Hermione knew, she was in a small restaurant. It was evidently a wizarding restaurant; everyone there was wearing dress robes. She looked around, wondering what kind of memory _this_ could be, and gave a small start when she realised that she was standing next to Minerva again, who this time was seated next to a tall, brown-haired man in a forest-green robe. Hermione moved closer to hear what they were saying.

They were just standing up. As he handed her a long, dark-green coat, the man said warmly, "I'm so proud of you, Minerva." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "A teacher at Hogwarts!"

"Yes," she said softly, "I can hardly believe it myself."

As they their way out the door, stopping to pay at a counter near the front, Hermione noticed that they were hand in hand.

They had apparently decided to walk to wherever they were going next; the way was long and took them away from the little lane which Hermione recognised as one of Hogsmeade's side-streets. The man was a bit taller than Minerva, athletic-looking through the robes, with broad shoulders. His hair was wavy; it reminded Hermione of men in 1950s print advertisements. She had seen his eyes in the restaurant; they were hazel and had a look of wisdom in them uncommon in men of his age. Then again, the men of that time, adolescents in a time of war, had been forced to grow up unusually fast.

They continued quietly on their way, towards a small wood at the end of the lane. Minerva had a dreamy look in her eyes, but her companion looked, for some reason, increasingly anxious. Soon, they came to a clearing and a small lake. Next to the lake, which was obviously used in summer for bathing, there was a long, rather rickety-looking bench. Quickly, he pulled Minerva towards it, suggesting that it might be time for a break. As she joined him, he put his arm around her, and she snuggled in happily, running one hand through his thick hair. He reached up for it and took it in his, and the other, too. "Minerva," he asked, "do you remember when we first came here?"

"Well, let me see," she said playfully, her green eyes gleaming even in the dark. "I think it was sixth year at Hogwarts. Does that sound right? And we were avoiding Professor Binns, he wanted us to help him with those dreadful files…and I believe we decided that a better use of our time would be to do this…" And she lifted his hand and kissed it. The action was gentle, but more weighted with love than many grander gestures.

"Yes, yes," he said, putting on an academic air, "quite right, Professor McGonagall. I see why that Dumbledore fellow saw fit to hire you, after all." And then he looked at her earnestly, more earnestly than he ever had, and asked, "Minerva, I hope we shall have many such times from now on. In fact, I am sure we will. You see, I love you, Minerva McGonagall."

She was about to say the same thing back to him, but then, before she knew what was happening, he was on one knee, holding out a thin gold ring set with diamonds, and her breath seemed to have been knocked from her chest with the force of a Stunning spell. The man's voice was a whisper and sounded almost fearful, but he was careful to look Minerva in the eye, so that she should know the feeling and the thought behind his question. "Will you marry me?"

Hermione turned away—it felt indecent to watch such an intimate scene—but she heard Minerva's voice, choked with tears, say yes.

When scene dissolved again and Hermione found herself back in the Headmistress's office. 'That,' said Minerva, 'was the happiest day of my life. And the man you saw was Adam Martin. My husband. He worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, like you. We were married the next year, in 1957. Professors tend to keep their marriages quiet, you see, out of convenience—otherwise the students would have a field day, and besides, we know they don't like imagining us having lives away from the classroom. That is why I never changed my name."


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, I appreciate the encouragement!

Chapter 2

"Adam and I, as you heard, met at school," sighed Minerva. He was as academically-minded as I; in fact, he was the first student I could ever really talk to about my thoughts, the first boy who took me seriously. With the others, I had always tried desperately to pretend I wasn't such a bookworm, but Adam and I, we would talk for hours. He was Muggle-born and was passionate about Muggle-Wizard relations; later, he would prosecute cases related to prejudiced actions against Muggles at the Wizengamot. And he was kind, and good. We couldn't marry until after the end of the First War, of course, and then both of us were doing apprenticeships--after graduation we had both been part of the war effort--so the time didn't seem right. That's why it took us so long to finally decide to take that step. But anyway, enough explanation…I'll move you up a few years." With that, she gave the Pensieve another stir.

Now the scene dissolved again and Hermione found herself in a cosy sitting room; the calendar on the wall indicated that it was now 1965. The decoration was tasteful, but admittedly somewhat eccentric—the walls were absolutely covered with laden bookshelves, magazines sat stacked on the glass coffee table, and quills and pieces of parchment were littered around the various antique-looking tables.

On the table were what looked like the remains of a dinner: wine glasses and dessert plates smeared with chocolate. Minerva and Adam were standing at the door, waving good-bye to a couple—a woman in a stuffed vulture hat, carrying a sleepy boy in her arms, and tall man with a little girl by the hand. Hermione recognised the hat right away; there could only be one like it in all England. The little girl ran back up the steps quickly to give a picture she had drawn to Adam, who beamed and thanked her, shaking her hand sombrely. She seemed to find this sudden seriousness hilarious, and ran back to her parents giggling.

They were both still young, but looked more mature; Minerva's cheeks were less round and she appeared somehow more angular than before; also, her hair was now tied back. Adam's hair was shorter and he was wearing glasses, though he was still younger than forty. Hermione knew from experience that lawyers often started to lose their eyesight quite young from having to peer at so many old parchments (why people couldn't store them properly was a mystery to her, it was a simple charm!)

Minerva waved, somewhat stiffly, as Augusta and her husband walked down the road. As soon as the door shut, though, she stalked over to the blue, overstuffed couch in the middle of the room and curled up in its corner, kicking off her shoes violently as she did so. That a witch that tall could make herself so small was utterly unbelievable; her arms were wrapped around her legs and her fists clenched tightly under her chin. Her eyes gleamed like a sharpened knife.

Adam approached her gently, his usually calm, measured gait becoming a bit unsteady in his haste. He perched behind her, on the back of the couch, and ran a hand over her hair, like a parent comforting a child. When she finally looked up at him, the tears that had been threatening to run over finally did, in a steady but silent stream.

"Minerva!" he said, softly but anxiously. "Minerva, what is it?"

"I know, Adam…I know that we will never have what they have, that we will never be the ones to walk away with a child in our arms. And I see how you play with children, Adam, don't pretend you wouldn't want your own. One of the greatest witches of the age, it said in that _stupid_ magazine"—she pointed angrily to a copy of _Transfiguration Today_ that lay on the table—"and yet incapable of doing what any _normal_ woman can do."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.

"No! Don't tell me it may happen. It's been nearly ten years, and still nothing. I cannot have a child, and what's worse, you cannot either—and through no fault of yours! I…I at least have my students, but you do not even have that."

"Minerva…" he started.

"Hush!" she cried. "I don't want to hear it!" She half-heartedly attempted to swat his calming hand away, but didn't try too hard—she knew, deep down, that she needed to feel his steady, reliable presence.

She continued to sob and he stroked her back rhythmically, waiting for her to calm herself. "Minerva, listen to me." Those hazel eyes seemed to be looking through hers, reading what lay behind them. "If we never have children, I will still be happy with you. I would have no other wife, and no life could be better than the one we have now. I am, you see, perfectly content in what we already have…and only wish you could be, too."

She looked up at him, taking in his words, though he had said similar things before, for the first time. And she nodded, slowly, and wiped her eyes.

"I believe," she said, as she tilted her face upward to kiss him, "that maybe I could." And with that, she gave a very small, very hesitant smile. "You are sure that you don't wish for another wife? One who could give you a family?"

"Minerva, you silly witch, you are my family," came the reply. Picking up the copy of _Transfiguration Today_ from the table, he added with a smile, "and I happen to like this magazine. It publishes a great many articles by a woman I happen to be rather fond of."

The faint smile grew slightly wider, and Minerva tilted her head up to kiss him. For a woman who spent so much of her time being the one required to provide answers—to students, to staff, to the editors of the _Journal of Transfiguration Studies_, to parents complaining about their children's performance—it was curiously comforting to be told she was just a silly witch.


	4. Chapter 3

1969

It was late at night, and Minerva was still in her office, marking essays. It was a Hogwarts custom that married teachers would only stay over in the castle one night a week, and today was her night. She had to admit, she didn't really mind--it was nice to have some time to herself. Besides, Adam simply worked late on Tuesdays too, so that they would both have more free time the rest of the week.

It had been a blissfully quiet night. No unexpected explosions, and Peeves was on his best behaviour, which in his case meant singing an only vaguely vulgar song only slightly off-key during his nightly wanderings. There were indications of a ruckus in Gryffindor Tower, but Professor Plaskitt, the smiley old wizard who taught Ancient Runes, would be more than able to cope with that. As he lived in the castle anyway and was nearing retirement, Plaskitt had agreed to take over as Head of Gryffindor House when Professor Dumbledore was made Headmaster. The post of Head of House had a favourable effect on pensions, and so tended to become more sought-after as teachers as they aged. Minerva occasionally daydreamed about doing the job herself someday; she imagined that she would enjoy it (she had so looked up to Dumbledore when he was her Head), but there was the problem of being required to live at the castle. She couldn't imagine Adam agreeing to moving into the castle...Oh well, one couldn't have everything, after all.

For a long time, the only sounds were the scratching of her quill and occasional half-mutterings along the lines of "Obviously never read the textbook" or "surprisingly lucid argument." So she was quite surprised to hear a quiet, but firm, knock on her study door. The clock indicated that it was 12.03. She hastened to open it, worried that something was awry, and found herself face to face with Dumbledore, whose eyes looked as angry as she had seen them.

"Albus," she asked, her voice catching slightly in her throat, "what is it?"

"Are we alone, Minerva?" his eyes darted around the room.

"Yes, yes, of course," she replied, trying to read in his face what could be the matter. She stepped aside so he could come in, and he sank immediately into the nearest chair, looking curiously old.

"Minerva," he said, "I know who killed Amalia Bunkman."

"What do you mean, Albus?" she asked. "That was cleared up months ago...that drunken Muggle, Brown..."

"No, that's just it!" he whispered, putting his head in his hands and shaking it slowly. "I've been looking into it. Brown, you see...Brown doesn't exist. His existence was fabricated."

"But who..."

"The real killer, it seems, is a wizard who is calling himself Lord Voldemort."

"Who--how--how do you know?"

"I'll explain another day; it would take much too long. Let's say he has been on my radar for a while, but I hoped that he would put his extraordinary powers to better use...I've been urging the ministry to keep tabs on him, they maintain he's just a bit of a crackpot, but I am now convinced he's dangerous. He's been spouting Grindelwald-esque statements about Muggles, but without even the excuse of 'for the greater good'." He said these last words with a shudder. And he already has a significant following. I've been keeping tabs on him for over a year, his power is growing daily, and yet the Ministry reject my warnings. Institutions that have much to lose from bad news tend to like to shut their eyes to it."

Minerva sank back into a chair, looking a bit faint and rather green. Albus conjured them both tumblers of firewhisky.

As she felt it burning its way down her throat and through her chest, she thought, eyes closed and head tipped back. First she thought of everything that another Dark wizard like Grindelwald would jeopardize--her family, the school, her friends. And then, of her childhood, filled with fear of Dark wizardry and Muggle bombs. She used to be sent to the roof of her house to spy for doodlebugs with field-glasses, a whistle in her mouth so she could alert the neighbourhood, and she had dared not use the Floo network, as her father was a wanted man and she could be taken as collateral. To return to a state of such fear...

"Something must be done," she finally said.

"It would be..." she closed her eyes, realising how badly she wanted to be able _not_ to fight, how much she had come to treasure the relative calm and security of the past decades, and yet knowing that it was impossible to ignore so great a threat-- "unforgivable..if we allowed him to continue to kill like that. But why those fools at the Ministry refuse to open their eyes," she continued angrily--for they could have stopped him before, maybe even still could, if the thing were possible--"I shall certainly never understand!" Her green eyes flashed, and for a moment they looked more like a cat's than her own.

Albus looked up at her, seeming weary--was she imagining it, or had his auburn hair become much greyer in the past month?--but somehow, pleased. "I was hoping you would say that, Minerva. I am planning to gather a group to watch him, and work against him, if it comes to that. It's just really a plan now, but I would appreciate your help. Because of your wizarding skill, but above all, because I know I can trust you."

She looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Of course. I shall do whatever is necessary."


	5. Chapter 4

1969 

Minerva sat in Poppy Pomfrey's office, perched rather uncomfortably on the edge of her desk, so as to avoid tipping over one of the hundreds of potions scattered around it. How Poppy managed to keep them all straight, she thought, was certainly a mystery to her. The mediwitch--at twenty-five, young and fresh-faced, but already slightly rotund--was bustling around the other side of the room. 

"You know me, Poppy," Minerva was saying, "I don't like making a fuss over nothing, but really, it seems so strange that I wouldn't be able to perform a simple Silencing Spell in class today, why, if any of the students had noticed that I had tried, I don't know what it would have done for my reputation…and so out of character, you know! I've heard of it happening, but I've never experienced anything of the sort." 

She started flicking through the books stacked on the desk while she waited for Poppy to finish her work. Poppy had a mystifying weakness for sappy romance novels, and although Minerva could never work up any enthusiasm for them herself, she always liked to look at their covers—they were always so horribly melodramatic. "One Witch in Hollywood" proclaimed one cover, with a picture of a wide-eyed witch staring longingly at the Hollywood sign. "An Unpermittable Romance" proclaimed another, with a picture of a muscle-bound centaur and a woman staring at each other from opposite parts of an ocean. 

"Poppy, I really do not understand how an intelligent witch like you can read such trash," she started. 

"Well, Minerva," the nurse said, eying her with a serious look, "we all need some relaxation, don't we? And as far as your relaxation goes, my dear, I think you'll have to make some changes. I've run all the tests, and my advice to you would be to lay off the firewhisky for a while." 

Minerva started. Of all the things she might hear, this was the one she least expected. "Now really, Poppy," she cried, looking at her sternly over the tops of her glasses, "Just because I got a bit tipsy at New Year doesn't mean it's a habit! I would have expected you, at least, to know that…" 

The mediwitch broke in. "Now, Minerva, I'm not accusing you of anything…Besides, seven months is not forever, you know." 

Minerva stared blankly. And then, slowly, realisation dawned in her eyes. "Seven months…you mean…" She gasped. "Impossible!" Her eyes looked fearful, as if she couldn't bear to allow herself to hope. Madam Pompfrey nodded, and her face broke into a smile. She threw her arms around Minerva, who grabbed her back. 

She felt as if her chest would explode, as if the joy was so great that her heart alone could not hold it…and in a flash, it was bubbling up, in her chest bubble up and stream down her face, but she was laughing at the same time… 

The next scene took place in McGonagall's familiar office. Dumbledore was seated across from her, looking apprehensive and even slightly forbidding. She drew a deep breath, and said, "Albus, I want you to understand...the reason I couldn't do the task..." 

"Yes, I've been wondering about that myself," he replied coldly. 

"Oh Albus," she said, "It's not what you think, I still want desperately to help you, but you see, there are now some...physical barriers. I didn't want to tell you yet, but I see that I have no choice. Albus, I'm expecting a baby." She lowered her eyes. 

His face cracked into a smile, and he swept her into an embrace, which she accepted awkwardly, but with gladness. "I wish you had told me earlier," he said, "here I was, thinking that maybe you were wavering about the project..." 

"Well, Albus," she said seriously, "I didn't want to tell you until I had told Adam, but I've been waiting for the right moment. And the reason I decided to tell you first--besides to allay your fears--was because I think perhaps you can help me." She whispered something to him, and he nodded, with the look of a schoolboy who's suddenly told he can put gum on the teacher's chair. 

That evening, Minerva came home with a sombre look on her face and a letter from Dumbledore in her pocket. She was sobbing. 

Adam jumped up from the couch, where he had been reading a biography of Esmond Romilly, and ran to her, a worried look on his face. 

Before he could ask what was the matter, she handed him the letter from Dumbledore, saying that she would be suspended from work at Hogwarts from the beginning of June. 

He was baffled. 

"Why would Albus do such a thing?" he asked her. She looked at him balefully. "Do you promise not to interrupt until I'm done?" she asked. He nodded in reply. 

"I gave him reason to." 

"WHAT?!?" Minerva, the consummate teacher, break a Hogwarts statute?"What did you do?"

"Well you see," she said, a smile playing at the edge of her lips, though she tried to suppress it, "there will be other distractions in my life around June...In both of our lives, I should imagine...after all, another person will be joining them, and I should imagine this person will make his or her presence well known and require quite a bit of attention..." And as she said it, she took his hand and placed it gently on her abdomen.

He choked on his words; since he couldn't use them, he merely grabbed her, hugged her, and then lifted her up, twirling her in a circle as the tears gleamed in his eyes.

**_  
_**


	6. Chapter 5

Hermione's face was wet with tears after seeing that scene. She looked at Professor McGonagall, surprised at how much of her biography she had never known.

Minerva's eyes seemed far away, but she turned to Hermione. "My daughter was born on the twenty-first of June, 1970--the first day of summer. It was the best day of my life." She paused. "Well, the second half of it, anyway," she added, with a small laugh.

"She was a beautiful baby, with dark, black hair and hazel eyes. We named her Alina Rose. Adam absolutely doted on her--and I admit, I did too--although of course, we were careful not to spoil her."

"That picture"--she pointed to the one Hermione had found--"was taken when she was eight months old, in the Englischer Garten in Munich. We were on holiday there."

With that, Minerva Summoned a box of Ginger Newts from her desk. When she opened it, though, there were no biscuits inside; instead, there was a small photo album.

They spent many minutes looking through it. There was Adam bending over a tired-looking, sweaty Minerva in a hospital bed, Alina in her arms, and another of her with the baby resting against her, obviously only a few minutes old. Various pictures of a baby on a blanket, oddly-dressed family and friends holding the child, and innumerable shots of the gummy little girl smiling at the camera. "You can't imagine the joy of a child after you've hoped for one for so long."

She let Hermione into her memory again.

Hermione saw her putting Alina in a cot, speaking happy baby talk to her.

Adam stood in the doorway of the room, and Minerva couldn't see him, but there was a look of great tenderness on his face. He withdrew as Minerva turned to leave, and caught her in his arms as she closed the door. He enveloped her in them and rocked her gently to and fro, and whispered in his wife's ear, "Right now, I am the luckiest man in the world." She turned, put her arms around his neck, and pulled herself close to his chest.

Minerva interrupted the memory. "It's times like that that you wish it could always be as wonderful--at least, I did. But of course, it can't, and that Fall, Voldemort came to power. It was terrifying, even though I had known about him for some time. Alina's arrival changed my outlook on everything--I was no longer worried just about me, or about Adam, but about her, and the kind of world she would live in." She pulled an old, faded, fragile-looking letter out from the back of the picture album. "I wrote this to Alina to explain why I chose to resist, in case anything should happen to me. I keep it now as a reminder to myself, when I think about all that was lost in the wars."

_Dear Alina,_ [the letter said

_I want to explain to you why I have decided to resist the Dark Lord, fully understanding the great dangers it involves. I am doing this because I believe it is the only way to ensure that truth, justice, courage, and good prevail in this world. Never have we faced a greater challenge, as a community, or as individuals, and now is the time to take a stand for what we believe in. I know that I may be unsuccessful, but cannot do otherwise without feeling that I have sacrificed the most important values for the ultimately ephemeral cause of my own survival. I love you, my daughter, more than life itself, and I want you to know that your mother tried to make the world that you would live in an acceptable one._

_ Love, Mummy_

Seeing Hermione's eyes--glistening with tears--rise up from the letter, Minerva continued her narrative. "Adam and I were very active in the Order--he was a spy in the Ministry, I did the same kinds of tasks I did in the last war--analysis of information, that kind of thing. I was on a year of leave from school, because of the baby, who of course we didn't tell the students about. No-one ever does, it's good to have some kind of private sphere in a job like that. Well, we became very, very glad that we had kept our relationship a secret from our students then, because our work in the Resistance put us in fairly constant danger.

And through it all, Alina could make us smile even when nothing else possibly could."


End file.
